Rectitude
by Timeandvlove
Summary: The untold tale of the Barber, Knight of Ruin. He's a demon who is forbidden from pleasure, bound to only serve his cause and to protect human kind. When he meets Rose, the strong willed Diabolist who needs his aid to save her father his morals and ethics are tested strongly as they grow ever closer, bound by an unbreakable pact, feeling impossible sensations.
1. Chapter 1

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>His shears clicked and clanged as he slowly advanced towards the woman, following the trail of blood.<p>

She raised a ruined arm and yanked herself forward past a tree, hobbling on her bloody and broken leg stumps, trying to escape him. There was no escape from one such as him, but she tried.

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>They were near the village of Nogeun-ri in Korea. She, the lady crawling before him, had been a refugee, fleeing danger from her home. Her family had died in the fighting before and so she had no one but her older sister to cling to. She idolized her, obsessed over her, followed her every whim.<p>

She tried to screech for help and let out a hoarse moan, her throat too broken and damaged to do much more. She tripped over a branch and as she scrambled away she fell to the ground.  
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>Soldiers from across the seas, fearing some sniper, had opened fire on the refugees. The pair of them had scattered from the group. Her older sister had got her sister to hide in an old well and sought to lead those pursuing them away. Before she left she'd given her a necklace which hung around her neck now.<p>

Her sister had never come back. She had died a slow, agonizing and lonely death in that well, waiting for the person she had loved. And now she was here. Back from the dead as an undead spirit of vengeance and hate. A gwishin.

He caught up to the gwishin and grasped her matted muddy black hair, pulling her up. With his other hand he carefully grasped her head and forced her to look him in the eyes. He forced himself inside her, his power flooding her body. He then spoke to her, in her head, his voice deep and terrible.

'You killed dozens of girls. Everyone that picked up your necklace, you possessed them, burning out their souls to fuel your rage. You killed their families by drowning them to gain vengeance for your lost sister, laughing as their life faded. Do you have any last words?

She spoke back into his head, her voice long gone, but her mind still keen and sharp.

'They deserved it. They're just like my sister. Petty, uncaring, I regret nothing. I want to hurt people. I won't stop. I know things. My mother taught me things. I know beings. I swear, I will claw my way up from the abyss and destroy you. I will rend you, drown you, destroy you.'

He looked at her. A rather scrawny bedraggled pale faced woman with little power left and a lot of rage. He looked at himself. A being of immense power with a true form slightly larger than Asia. He shook his head. 'No, you won't.' Then he stabbed his shears forward into her, slicing across dimensions, twisting in and out of them.  
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>'You will go to no afterlife or heaven. Your power will drain out till you are nothing but a husk. Your terror ends now. I am a demon of the choir of ruin, a knight of the universe and ruin. I will defend it to my last breathe from disgusting beings like you.'<p>

She screeched out and tried to slash at him with the bloody bones that were all that was left jutting from her elbows. His outer form took a mild scratch, revealing crawling maggots under his flesh that started to crawl down her boney stump.

A sudden ringing sounded in his head and he smelt a rich smell- roast pork, excellently made with his name on them. Some burning hair too- a nice touch, he was proud of that deed. He was being summoned, yanked from afar to somewhere. He was busy though and he didn't really want to risk this disgusting monster somehow killing another victim though he appreciated the offer. Perhaps he could send a mote to talk to them instead? He cast his senses through the summoning and saw it. A young, innocent child atop the pyre of roast pork in substantial danger falling and being burnt.

He would not let this innocent child be endangered by some foolhardy practitioner. He dropped the gwishin unceremoniously, grabbed the summoning spell, and flew across the seas to save the child. This was every demon's duty. To protect the innocent, to help the young make a better and brighter future. He would not shirk his duty. He would trim and cut so that beings of evil would be finally ended. He was coming. He had many names but the one that had stuck was the Barber. The Barber was coming.


	2. Chapter 2

He sensed a mess of emotions below him where he was summoned. He could take almost any form- his mass reserves were nigh limitless, his power immense. Still, with these dangerous practitioners endangering a child he could not afford to take any less imposing form than his best. He'd have to get in quick and out quicker.

He sensed two practitioners, a Chronomancer and a Diabolist. He sensed the baby too, crying as the downpour of rain made it cold and filled it with waves of pain that radiated off it. The two practitioners had some sort of ward over the area that prevented clear sight of much but the pyre of swine and burning hair and the baby, but he could sense some spiritual elements through it.

She, the Diabolist, looked like a young practitioner, not especially powerful. She had a huge weight of negative karma on her shoulders, various potent promises and oaths bound to her. A bit overweight. He made himself fat and bulbous like her, and turned his implement into a sickle to suggest non aggression- the sickle was a spiritual symbol of death and a transition from life to death. It wasn't too chaotic, hopefully hinting that if they complied with him, but if they failed bad things would happen.

He, the Chronomancer had been injured by some undead being. Another sad sign of this world's decay. He took on an even more decayed form to hopefully shock him briefly and stop him throwing any of that time magic at him. He had little recent experience with Chronomancy.

They were in America. From what he knew of American cultures they saw horses as a symbol of beneficial spiritual messengers. He hadn't been to America for a while, how much could they have changed? Regardless he shifted his head into that of a horse to better express his good intentions. He wanted to push the message, "I am angry at you, you like a lot of practitioners are doing some really bad stuff but if you comply you might get out of this alive." Assertive, not angry.

He looked over himself. A vast, bulbous being with necrotic flesh across his body, a sickle in his hand, and a rotting horse head. It all looked good and was very imposing too so he doubted they would want to mess with him.

They were using some sort of abstract binding to hopefully capture him when he landed, lines and shapes. He could break out easily enough though, they had little power in them and would take a while to charge up.

It was time. He dropped down into reality, appearing in the middle of the circle.

He looked around letting a torrent of knowledge fly into him as he peered from dimension to dimension for evidence of what was happening.

The abstract lines were as he expected- formed to oppose ruin, though not nearly enough power to bind one such as him. A well made binding circle would cut a demon off from most of their power. Beings that could destroy worlds and stars could be bound with a little power and some lines on the ground because despite their strength the conduits of power were flimsy and easily shut.

He guessed they must have underestimated his power- he could quickly break it if need be. The circle would shatter and they would bow before his wrath. Better to be safe than sorry though.

He swept his eyes over the offering. A number of rotting swine that smelt delicious with his name written on them, the hair. On top of it a crying baby of the Diabolist's blood from what he saw. It was covered with runes and artwork, drawn on with a marker pen. Beneath it were connecting wire and plastic cables that led under the ground and to the outside of the binding lines.

He could see now what they were doing. They had set up a trap. If he tried to burst open the binding circle then it would send a shock through the ground and slay their child. Their child had what he could now see were sacrificial runes. The pain of its death and its innocence and virginity would channel its ghost and the lifeforce of a potential practitioner into instantly closing the circle. If he touched the baby other runes would activate and slay it binding him into the circle.

It took a very callous person to bind their own child to gain power. There was great symbolism and power in a deed like this and great evil in it too. The spirits around would strengthen the binding and hold him firmly there preventing any escape. It would work.

It put a foul taste in his mouth that these people, seeking his power, would sacrifice an innocent child. They had no hope of getting the child back regardless of what happened. The baby would be bound in here with him dead or alive. Were he a more vicious being the child would have a horrible fate ahead of them.

It would take them perhaps half an hour to fully charge up the circle without that circle. He had time. He paced to the edge and looked at the pair. They were chanting, calling power into the binding, staring into each other's eyes with a quiet and desperate passion. The Diabolist had love in her heart to the Chronomancer, he did not return it. He could perhaps attack the pair through the child's bond to their mother. He looked around for a connection.

She had severed it. He could see the broken ends of the connection hanging out from each of them. She had severed all love and compassion to her own child. Enchantress work. That child would grow up always feeling alone and never being really sure of themselves or confident that they were cared about. He couldn't free the baby via that route.

There were no reflective surfaces nearby. He had an innate elemental connection to mirrors and it required very little power for him to connect to one. They seemed to have cleared the area of anything reflective in anticipation of his power. The rain that was falling quickly merged with the dirt of the forest to form a black muddy mess and was of little use. Perhaps if he weakened the circle he could escape into a water drop.

There were some local spirits left. They hadn't removed them. He could perhaps take them and use them to bypass the circle. There were a few water elements, a minor god of the worms, an earth element. He refused to use them in a destructive way though. He didn't want to hurt innocents, unlike these practitioners.

Ethically he understood the idea of the greater good, he knew some demons adhered to it, but in his experience people who sought the greater good often enough just sought their own goodness. It wasn't a path he wanted to go down.

The water elements after a little soul gazing appeared pure and proper. Not good targets. The earth element had sought to grasp and grab a child once but that had been simply to stop her going to the hut of some other foul practitioner.

The worm god though was interesting. The worship of the worms to one of the predators that ate them had pushed a little power into it, a little fear and love granting it intelligence and power. It was a beautiful thing, a tiny red songbird. It had been very bad though. Seeking stronger sustenance it had lured a young woman who thought she was a princess into the woods with gentle songs and words to the depths of the woods, lured and entranced her till she collapsed of hunger and exhaustion and led the worms to feed on her rotting and dying body. She hadn't died till after she'd seen worms crawling out through her eyes. It gained worshippers and strength at her expense.

He reached into the earth and pulled it out from its underground cabin, shaking away the worms that crawled over its body. It shook and screeched, trying to escape. He quickly ended that with a swipe of his sickle. He separated the god's power from its wrath and anger. With a tiny tendril of his power pushed into its brain he sent the spirit of rage to attack the two practitioners while he used the godly aspect to command the worms around him to attack the binding circle.

The bird lunged at the Diabloist, slashing at her face with its claws, leaving bloody gorges that would heal poorly. She backed away, carefully seeking to avoid putting eyes on him, drawing out a small clay creation. She threw it at the bird. As it flew through the air the goblin bound within came out and grasped the bird, biting into it and attacking it. The bird fought back, kicking and scratching it with claws, forcing it to fall to the ground. She, the Diabolist, meanwhile went to add fresh paint to the binding, stamp at the newly emerging worms and crush them, the bird circling and looking for an opening. The Chronomancer just stood there, pushing ever more power into the binding.

This would serve as the distraction he needed. With the binding circle sufficiently weakened he could escape. He turned to the pile of boars and the crying baby. He slashed his sickle at his name written on them. If they didn't have his name the binding would be far weaker and he could save the child. Furiously, he slashed and slashed, trying to destroy them all.

Then he looked back, and saw the binding circle completed.

He looked down and sent his senses to pierce past the dirt that blocked his sight. Hidden under the ground were Chronomancer spells that had slowed his perception of time. In the seconds he'd taken to destroy the names half an hour had passed and in that time the binding had been completed. He was trapped in this circle along with the Diabolist's child.


	3. Chapter 3

He stamped his foot and send a pulse of ruin through the ground and destroying the chronomancy runes. He would recognize such things now. They would not work again on him again.

The Diabolist spoke, her voice confident and firm, power in her tone, even though she wouldn't even directly look at him. "By the word of Suleiman I demand that you-"

He flipped her a single middle finger and turned away, ignoring her. He had work to do. The baby was still there and his touch would still slay it if this was done wrong. His destruction of the names written on the swine had substantially weakened parts of the binding- now splattered with the Chronomancer and the Diabloist's blood and the bodies of many crushed worms- and so despite the magically augmented strength of the outside barrier he could now pull more of his strength through and do some interesting tricks.

He grabbed a bottle of burning hair. He reached in, winced at the pain- he could not call in much mass here to repair the damage- then grabbed a handful of burning hair, resisting the burning pain. He turned away from the two practitioners and shielded his actions from them.

He could try something to deal with the wire trap that threatened to kill the child, he could try to outrun any magic but he did not know what traps they had hidden. A failed attempt could easily trigger something that would slay the child. He had other options.

The barrier would make it tricky to do much offensively. He couldn't pick up a jar and use it to break the circle. His intent to throw it would be blocked, his wrist would limply collapse and the jar would fall and he would look very silly. It would drain him a lot even to rush up to the edge and take on some horrid form to scare them. He could freely do non offensive things though.

He weaved the hairs into a long chain, tying one end to another with expert fingers. He was a very experienced with a needle and thread. He had had centuries of experience closing wounds and injuries, not all of them inflicted by him. Soon he had a chain about a foot long of thin singed hair. He grabbed some grass from the ground and began tying it to the end.

He looked at the baby. The baby looked terrified and had gone into silence now. It was splattered in old swine blood, dripping wet, probably frozen. If he didn't get it out soon it might freeze to death.

He looked at his tool. A thin chain of burnt hair, dominated by his power, and a small ball of grass on the end out of his control which wouldn't, as far as he could see, trigger any explosion. He flicked the grass at the baby. Then, manipulating the burnt hair he started to tickle the child.

He flicked the hair back and forth over the baby's armpit, flicked it over the baby's chest. The baby started to giggle. He flicked the grass ever faster and soon the baby was shaking and laughing at his touch.

The baby's jerks and movements made it roll over, off the trigger away from him. He heard a cry of panic from the two practitioners, who apparently hadn't expected him to be able to free the child. With a burst of speed he sprinted round to the other side and scooped the baby off the pile.

He span around, kneeling, holding the baby close to him in his arms. A moment later the trap went off, sending a burst of flame out. He absorbed it into him and took the blast, absorbed the pressure wave, ruining the trap. Through the link he sent a pulse of his power out of the circle seeking to confuse and ruin the practitioners.

He then turned around, rocking the baby close to his chest, and looked at the two practitioners. The Diabolist looked deflated, as though all her energy had suddenly leaked out. The Chronomancer was less depressed and had a fierce look of determination on his face. He was holding a staff with which he had activated the trap, the end still glowing bright red.

For about half a minute they stood there in silence, him holding the child, the pair of them looking shocked.

The Diabolist looked up and spoke, . "I... I offer you my firstborn if you agree to my contract." the Chronomancer looked at her with shock and grabbed her shoulder. "We didn't agree to this!" The woman shook him off, slapped him in the face and shouted at him. "You said you would let me handle this. Are you going to break your oath?" The Chronomancer swore back at her, then turned round, enraged.

He wasn't sure why people kept offering him firstborn. What was he supposed to do with them? Hang them up on a wall or something? Why sure, firstborn, my favourite thing ever, can't get enough of small ugly babies with no skills or utility!

The woman spoke again. "I offer them fully and totally, the first of my line to do with as you want. A foothold in this world if you agree to our contract. Please. I need your help."

It wasn't often that a practitioner said please. He respected that. Manners. It gave him a measure of power too, to influence them. She deserved a response.

He spoke. "What desperate times they must be if you come seeking my help. What is it? Who did you anger?"

She looked shocked. "You speak? They said- no, it doesn't matter. I didn't anger anyone. But there's someone out there, someone killing people. Our scrying has shown a very dark future of blood and torture and agony for everyone. They took my father." She paused, bit her lip, and continued. "If you agree to my contract then I swear to give you my baby and myself." The air shook with the strength of that oath. The spirits had taken notice.

He could smell the desperation in the air. He looked again at her- she was running ragged, running on fumes. Bags under her eyes, a sway in her step, bloodshot eyes that spoke of ill sleep for a while. The Chronomancer didn't look much better.

Of all practitioners Diabolists did tend to have the noblest element to them. The idea of sacrificing a child, like the especially cute one that rested quietly in his arms, was abhorrent to him, the opposite of the nobility he expected. He'd assumed she was just one of those desperate types who had pissed off the wrong person and was hoping magic could fix the problems her poor social skills caused.

Self sacrifice he could respect more and she was clearly at the edge of what she could handle. Perhaps he could put her on a better path with some mentorship. If whatever danger was real perhaps he could save this place. It was every knight of ruin's duty to make the world a better place and often a gentle helping hand would do more than the harsh cut of a blade.

"Tell me everything that's gone wrong and then we'll talk about contracts. You may need time to think about this. I shall speak to you soon."

He then turned around, sat down, and started stroking the tiny baby's hair.

He heard them speaking. The Chronomancer spoke first.

"We just missed a minute. I have no idea what happened to it but I know my sense of time. Do you know anything about what it could be? I felt something when we tried to trigger the trap?"

The Diablolist spoke second. "I'm not sure- some trick of the demon's I suppose. I remember glints of something though. About contracts. About sacrifices"

He tuned out the sound of their voices and focused his thoughts on the future. His voice was filled with his power. Anyone who heard it would soon find their recollection ruined, though fragments of his intention would be left inside them. A useful tool for stealth and assault, useful for gaining control of practitioners too. It was hard to defend against something you didn't remember existing.

About half an hour later the Chronomancer spoke to him.

"I want to make a deal."

The Barber smiled.


End file.
